


In Times of War, a HPMOR Prequel

by venn47



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, First War with Voldemort, Gen, HPMOR Universe, Pre-HPMOR
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 15:55:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13907367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venn47/pseuds/venn47
Summary: Ten years before the birth of Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, the Dark Lord Voldemort began his rise to power. Of these dark times many things are said, though few know the truth behind the stories. After decades of absence, David Monroe returns home to find a country on the precipice of chaos.The fic treats the HPMOR universe as canon, depicted in the Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality, and its unofficial sequel Significant Digits.





	In Times of War, a HPMOR Prequel

_Wool's Orphanage, London_

_1938._

Every inch of wallspace is covered in cracks and blemishes, ruined layers of faded paint now more gray than any other colour they might have originally been. The narrow room is decorated by only the modestmost furnishings; a single-pillowed child-sized bed, simple writing desk and chair, and rusted bars framing a lone window's exterior. At the table, reading a paperback edition of Homer's _Iliad_ likely retrieved from some garbage bin, sits a thin, pale boy of neatly combed dark hair and deep green eyes. This is what Albus Dumbledore, professor of transfiguration at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry sees upon entering the room of one Tom Morfin Riddle.

Neither speak. Thus the owner of a majestically long and fashionably graying beard slowly makes to sit on the bed, content to observe in silence for the time being.

"You didn't ask," the boy finally utters.

"Pardon?"

"If you could sit on my bed. You didn't ask." The boy's eyes remain fixed on the pages which he seemed to flip way too fast to get any actual reading done.

"Oh, I did not wish to interrupt your reading."

There is no response. Silence slowly creeps into the room that seems to be its natural habitat. Some time passes with the only audible noise being the flipping of pages. Eventually, the boy speaks again.

"Are you another psychologist?"

"I fear not." The professor's gaze once more sets upon the boy.

"Why are you here, then? I never get visitors, and I have no relatives." An ache in the professor's stomach, something akin to a distant feeling of sorrow.  

"I am sorry to hear that." Tom's reading seems to pause for a moment. "I am a professor, at a school for gifted children such as yourself."

He waits, but there is no response.

"I understand you can do things other children can't."

Still nothing.

The book suddenly rises to slip out of Tom's grasp, lifted into the air as if by an invisible hand and delivered to Dumbledore's side, floating helplessly a feet or two above the bed. The boy, startled, pushes back and almost falls out of his chair, widened eyes staring at the bearded man in disbelief for but an instant or two, before he manages to compose himself. The professor merely waits as several moments pass by in quietude.

"Sometimes," he exhales, "sometimes I can make people do what I want them to. I can also move things without touching them." He looks briefly in the _Iliad_ 's direction. "But I can't control it. It just happens."

Dumbledore's gaze measures carefully the boy that stands before him.

After a moment of silence, the professor finally speaks. "Would you like to learn?"

The boy nods once.

 

* * *

 

_Mary's Place, Diagon Alley_

_1971._

            "How can you treat this so lightly, mother?"  Annabel Jenkins was visibly and audibly upset, almost enough to attract attention from the other guests of Mary's Place. It was, after all, a place of fine dining where one might generally find various notable persons. Beyond the lavish furnishings and exquisite cuisine, visitors would enjoy a sense of privacy. Every table was equipped with its own _Quieter_ and all of them were carefully arranged into a selection of booths and other simple walls and barriers, so that no one could sour your mood by offering so much as an occasional glance in your direction, let alone stare rudely for extended periods of time. The sort of clientel that comes here knows better than to do so, but cautionary measures are seldom a bad thing. Said people could likely find far suitable locations for discussing things that demand privacy, such as the comfort of their elaborate mansions, but the idea of conducting such business in restaurants has always had a strange and irrational appeal to it. And so the owner of Mary's place – likely a middle-aged woman named Mary – had ensured privacy for that particular fancy. Besides the sole entrance, somehow visible from wherever one stood or sat in the dining area, there were two hallways. One, through which employees hurriedly emerged to gather orders, through which they returned with said orders and through which they emerged again with food requested; the other shrouded by a curtain, which Annabel had never seen anyone enter or vacate. It must also be said that the food was remarkable.

Annabel dropped her spoon into a bowl of diraclaw soup in order to express fully her dissatisfaction with her mother's handling of this particular affair.

"These lunatics, no, terrorists, have already assaulted half a dozen muggleborn households. There have been casualties, for Merlin's sake!"

Eugenia Jenkins claimed another slice of a seemingly ordinary steak, chewing patiently while listening to her daughter's incessant rambling. She had held the position of Minister of Magic for three years now. She'd dealt firmly with both the Squid Rights Movement and the purist riots that broke out as a result. Even before that, she had been in bureaucracy for a solid fourty-two years, had pushed towering stacks of parchment and juggled nobleborn brats. A rampant group of magical terrorists – lunatics, mind you – would quickly be stomped out and swooped under the rug. Issues of greater scope occupied her thoughts; the trade agreement with China, the missing aurors in Albania. She did not have time for this nonsense.

Finally swallowing the well-ground meat, she raised a fork. "Do not let this talk of terror bother you so much, Annie. These Death Eaters. Death Eaters! What does that even mean? Nothing but blood purists lashing out in order to garner attention. I won't give it to them. We'll deal with them as we always have. Now eat your soup, it's getting cold."

Annabel furiously arose to gather her belongings. "If you won't do something about it, I will!" Accompanying them were two seasoned aurors, Gerard and Ryan, the Minister of Magic's personal guard, clad in shortened red robes and black leather, fearsome and imposing. They looked at eachother as Annabel made way for the exit, with Ryan finally resolving to follow.

"Miss, wait, you shouldn—"

The doors swung open with such force that one got torn out of its hinges, three men in hooded black robes awaiting beyond with their wands already out and in motion. In the blink of an eye a bolt of bright red energy struck and dropped the Minister's daughter, Ryan having been quick enough on the draw to raise a shield – a square of semi-transparent azure energy that stretched out to cover his sides, the sort that he could not move with. Outnumbered three to one, there was little use for mobility. The best thing he could do was hold ground and force their attention while Gerard flanked them with area-of-effect curses.  

From behind the three hooded figures swooped in a young woman of sharp features, long and curled dark hair, the black robes framing her slender form elegant, tastefully revealing. Were she not raising a wand at him, Ryan might have called her beautiful. Instead he focused on maintaining the barrier. There was something empty and cruel in her eyes.

"Gerar—"

The ghastly words echoed through the restaurant, the incantation and wand gesture swifter than anything Ryan had seen before. He did not have time to roll to the side, or drop onto the ground. He did not have time to move at all. He did not have time to _breathe_.

_"Avadakedavra!"_

The slender arm slashed gracefully ahead in what must have been but a second or less, the flash of dreaded green doing away with Ryan and his ward, a lifeless corpse left in its wake.

Gerard was already trading curses with the remaining two of the masked terrorists, most of the other guests either hiding, apparating away or abandoning the restaurant through improvised exists – shattered walls and the like – as the air was laid siege to by a shower of different colours crashing together into great blinding flashes and shattering explosions. A distant note of disappointment struck some part of his mind. _Why didn't they help?_ Despite the magical onslaught, he could hear the words distantly spoken, see the sickly green somewhere in his peripheral vision. His colleague, his brother in arms with whom he'd trained and served had died then and there on the whim of a terrorist whore that was _laughing_.   

„Get the girl!“ The woman's voice, gentle yet twisted rang out across the room, with the remaining would-be kidnapper hurrying over to Annabel's stunned form. _Oh no, you bloody don't_. Gerard swayed out of the way of a bolt of electricity sent crackling forth by one of his opponents, a furious gesture of his wand aimed for a spotted opening. _Bombarda._

Somehow, the terrorist managed to levitate a chair where the explosive spell would have landed, resulting in him being flung through the air and smashed against wall like a ragdoll, left severely injured. There was no time, no space to play it safe let alone reach Annabel that way. These men, whoever they were, were well-trained, deadly, and had no qualms with dishing out forbidden curses. In order to win, he would have to discard noble notions of mercy – a hand shot forth, poised for a _diffindo_ against the downed terrorist when he heard the words spoken again. They came slower this time, less fluidly, less intently, and from behind. _The other one._

_"Avada kedavra!"_

He could not turn around quickly enough, he could not counter even if he did. All he could do was drop, and the sickly green flash flew overhead and through a wall. He rolled around to see his foe's wand already raised and in motion when—

_"Avadakedavra."_

There was none of the usual malice in the words, no wrath or sick amusement. There was no hesitation. The Green Death had reaped the terrorist from behind so eerily fast that Gerard didn't even have the time to fully process what had occured when he saw a young man robed casually brown leap over the corpse and towards the entrance. The stranger's wand had not stopped for but a second, continously guided in an unending series of elaborate getures that invoked curse after curse, and he hadn't even bothered with shields! Only now did he notice that while himself and Ryan had efforted to raise and maintain their barriers, these cultists or whoever they were simply had not, until a moment ago. Both the wicked sorceress and her single remaining able-bodied servant, who had killed Ryan effortlessly and had almost killed him too were visibly struggling against this impossibly powerful stranger. The woman spoke spells Gerard hadn't even heard of, and this man was dismissing them with brief, terrifyingly precise flicks of his wand. He wasn't even speaking incantations for the most part, and when he would, the enemy's barriers were torn asunder while they scrambled helplessly to avoid being culled. The woman that had laughed and relished in the horror she had wrought was now afraid, both of them lashing out with a pair of killing curses out of the way of which the man simply stepped, as if he could see and know perfectly the trajectory beforehand. In a last, desperate attempt she swung her wand in Annabel's direction to release a gust of vile flame that was easily subdued with a single gesture of the young man's wand. However, it had been the distraction she needed to apparate away.

Behind them, the wounded figure Gerard had bombarded earlier arose to utter something vile only to be culled by yet another surge of green – a spell the words of which had lost their former edge and wickedness to endless repetition.

Then the man exhaled, and there was silence in the ravaged interior of what was, moments before, a crowded establishment of fine dining.

 

* * *

 

 

Gerard sat calmly in a simple wooden chair, observing the stranger who had saved his life through a wall of titanium bars. However wrong it felt to him, he did the right thing. The man had prevented a horrendous crime, but unforgivable curses were unforgivable for a reason. Gerard was an experienced auror, almost thirty years on the service. He was better than most, and he had seen the green death cast only once before. They say that the Killing Curse is fueled by hatred, and this man had cast it without a hint of hesitation. What sort of person could do that? Certainly, he was going to kill the masked man in cold blood, but that was self defense. Would he have been able to cast it back then? He did hate that woman, who killed Ryan like common pest. But he knew Ryan, and this man did not.

Minutes passed.

The stranger, now identified as David of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Monroe had quietly submitted his wand and allowed himself to be detained. He gave no information beside his name. He said nothing else at all, in fact. Even now he sat there in silence, leaned into a comfortable armchair with his eyes closed, waiting.

"Where did you learn to fight like that?" Gerard finally broke the silence.

Monroe's eyes had seemed distant and cold, but not evil. There was a sort of wisdom in them, Gerard thought. The man was still young, just past his fourth decade, despite of which he seemed ancient.

"Hogwarts is as good as answer as any, I suppose. Combat is a matter of experience, however, and I reckon I earned that in my travels."

"I've never seen anything like it. I saw Alastor Moody fight seriously once, but you're better."

Monroe smiled faintly. It seemed as if the auror amused him, but there was a hint of warmth and benevolence in that expression. The look a master might bestow upon an enthusiastic apprentice. „I shall take that as a great compliment, coming from the Minister of Magic's personal bodyguard. I watched you fight for a little before intervening; not too shabby. I am sorry about your colleague.“

The auror frowned. Ryan had been his partner for almost five years now, and they were good friends even before that. "I'll kill that bitch for what she did," he spoke upon meeting the prisoner's gaze again.

"I do not mean this as an insult, but I must observe that she might be too much for you to handle. It would be a shame to lose more good men to these savages."

"I'll just have to get better, then." Both of them smiled, if slightly so. As Monroe was about to reply, the sound of heavy boot intruded on the conversation. A woman that could only be described as _tough_ stepped around the corner, garbed in the same red robes as Gerard, albeit without the leather. Her hair, perhaps of shoulder length, was tied into a neat knot, dark and riddled with strands of grey, her gaze stern. Almost immediately, Gerard leaped onto his feet and straightened out. "Captain," he spoke firmly in greeting.

"Dismissed," the woman spoke in a firm tone of unquestionable authority and proceeded to mount the chair as Gerard left swiftly the way she came in. She unfolded a folder of black leather to review parchment contained within.

"David Monroe. Born 1927, entered Hogwarts in 1938, sorted into Slytherin, graduated 1945. Went on a graduation tour abroad and disappeared while visiting Albania. Presumed dead until last year, made no contact whatsoever with his family, made no contact with anyone at all for that matter. Suddenly appears to aid the aurors present against a group of terrorists apparenty intent on kidnapping the Minister of Magic's daughter. Slays two of the four attackers with the Killing Curse. And, according to the one surviving auror, fights like Merlin himself." She looked up at him as she finished reading. "You know what the standard penalty is for that, don't you?"

"I do," the man said calmly, still deeply embraced by the armchair.

She exhaled wearily. "Care to explain any of this? You saved the life of one of my aurors, and I am grateful for that. I'll tell you that all of these circumstances are beyond suspicious, however. This is likely not to go well for you. I am in your debt, so help me out here."

The tone was far removed from the sterness she displayed upon arrival. It was considerate, compassionate. It was what the Muggles called the 'good cop routine', often successful upon simpler minds.

"Worry not, Head Auror," he offered a knowing smile. "As you say, I am of a Most Ancient and Noble House, and I did save your auror, and the Minister of Magic's daughter. If we speak of what is likely, I should say that I am rather confident in the trial turning out well for me. And for you, as well, if my suspicions are correct." She frowned briefly at this, but did not interrupt. "You will also note that despite supposedly possessing power rivaling Merlin himself, I willfully handed my wand over and allowed you to take me into custody, and volounteered the fact that I am an occlumens. I will also, as yet another show of good faith, offer information you and yours will undoubtedly consider valuable."

"Such as?"

"Have you heard of the Death Eaters?"

She had. A blood purist terrorist group, thus far targeting muggleborn and squib households, hidden behind skull-shaped masks and leaving no followable tracks whatsoever, and it worried her. Their behavior was that commonly attributed to petty criminals. Delusional purist fools lashing out at the weak. The problem was that they had no leads, none whatsoever. Such groups often made obvious mistakes which lead to them getting quickly shut down. But there was nothing.

"The terrorists? Are you saying they were behind the attack?"

"Mh. I haven't spent the past year laying about and doing nothing, you know. One of their victims was an old and good friend of mine during my stay in Hogwarts. I owed it to him to investigate."

"And I suppose that is why you came back?"

"Why else? There is little for me here."

"This friend of yours. What was his name?"

"Devin Abney, a fellow Slytherin from my year. He was,“ Monroe paused for an instant, as if to choose a word. "Kind to me, when others weren't."

She looked down at the folder again.

"Says here you returned on the seventeenth of March."

"And?"

"The Abney household was attacked in early April, that much I remember." She met his distant gaze with but a flash of rancor. "It's against your best interests to lie, I assure you. I'll ask again. Why have you returned?"

Monroe's lips curved into an amused smirk. "Very good, captain. But I fear I have nothing to say on the subject. My affairs are my own, and I believe my arrival wholly unrelated to the crime I am being charged with."

Monroe watched her carefuly, from behind those bars, from within that chair. Despite being detained and questioned like a common criminal, he seemed perfectly at ease. It unsettled her, that she was the one feeling uncomfortable. This man had put down two of these lunatics – skilled ones, according to Gerard's report, and had done so with ease. Despite facing a twelve-year stint in Azkaban, he was perfectly calm, as if he were entirely in control.

"Fine," she conceded. "Tell me about your disappearance all those years ago. Where were you?"

"Oh, here and there. That too is of a private nature, but I shall tell you that there was an issue regarding a portion of my family, and that I had chosen to leave that life behind in favour of more pleasurable activities."

"Those being?"

"Magical research, of course." His lips quirked up only barely. "I see that I've failed to persuade you."

She scoffed, leaning back into her chair. "'Failed' doesn't quite do it justice. You were presumed dead, refuse to give out any information on where you were or what you were doing, not to mention your mysterious return. And now this? Three dead, one of them my own, two of those three by your own hand. You'll have to forgive me if I'm not exactly thrilled about the whole ordeal."

Monroe dipped his head. "You are forgiven, though it matters little. If I am correct I expect that you shall be convinced soon enough. If not, well. Either way, I should like to prepare myself for the trial. Would that be all, Madam... ?"

"Amelia Bones," she said briefly as she rose onto her feet. "No, that wouldn't be all. Not even in the general vicinity of all, but it'll do for now. I'm hungry, and this is going nowhere."

"It was a pleasure." Monroe looked up with something of a smile.

She rolled her eyes and left without a word. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
